Though I would describe myself as more of a “woo-woo” person, womb rituals were present for me too. After discovering meditation in my mid-20s, I was looking to cultivate a hobby that was healthier than “partying,” and I began meeting friends on retreats who encouraged me to venture into the more esoteric side of spiritual elixirs.
Since then, I’ve been invited to a variety of events — sound baths, ecstatic dance classes, angel card readings — but while they’re almost always fun, I think it’s best to maintain a healthy skepticism about New Age practices.
When I came across an invitation to join a “transformative journey to reconnect with your womb” from She’s Lost Control, a conscious lifestyle brand and workshop space in East London, I was intrigued. The suggestion to release the shackles that hold me to past trauma, stagnant energy, and unfulfilling partnerships and unlock the untapped potential at my core sounded powerful.
After giving birth to my daughter in the middle of the pandemic in late 2020 — a scary and sometimes isolating experience — I found myself craving a deeper connection. On top of holding a master’s degree in psychotherapy, working as a freelance journalist and copywriter, and raising my now-2-and-a-half-year-old, I was burnt out and exhausted.
It’s important to note here that I had not been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder or any other trauma, and I did not believe that trauma was affecting my mental state or interfering with my daily life. If I had, I would have sought help from a qualified medical professional first before turning to alternative medicine. However, alongside my weekly therapy sessions, what I was looking for was a restorative ritual that would allow me to feel like myself.
What happens in a womb healing ritual?
The womb healing in question is led by Desiree Diaz, a witch, shamanic practitioner, energy healer and women’s circle facilitator. On a Friday evening in late July, dressed in purple, she welcomed me and about 20 other women into a dimly lit room filled with yoga mats, Chinese lanterns and crystals. In the center of the floor is a beautiful, elaborate mandala (a circular geometric pattern symbolized in Buddhist and Hindu cultures) made of orange and pink roses, oracle cards, candles and a selenite wand.
Our session began with Diaz pouring us a sacred herbal tea, which she told me was specially designed to “revitalize” our reproductive systems: nettle to nourish the body through the menstrual cycle, oat stalks for minerals and vitamins, and red raspberry to nourish the uterus.
I am then asked to explain why I came to the class and reveal my sun and moon signs. After recovering from the humiliation of being the only attendee who didn’t know my sign (it turns out, astrology readers, I’m Gemini sun, Leo moon), I talk about my difficult postpartum experience and the feeling that I still haven’t fully accepted it. Talking openly about my feelings is not foreign to me. As part of the course, I am required to attend weekly group therapy sessions, but I wonder how it feels for those who are new to this.
I was struck by how honest and open everyone was. Workshop participants came from a diverse mix of experiences – infertility, miscarriage, abortion, traumatic births, abusive relationships, problematic periods – and tears flowed as women shared their stories. Though strangers, there was something special about the intimacy that comes from hearing women talk about topics that are usually kept private.
After introductions, the ritual begins. I lie on my mat, place a lavender pillow over my eyes, and Diaz leads me on a shamanic journey. Accompanied by rhythmic drumming that mimics the steady sound of a beating heart, she helps me enter a symbolic womb space through a guided visualization exercise.
We imagine ourselves walking through the woods, stumbling upon a dark cave (our symbolic womb), and picturing ourselves entering and being filled with light. Being a wild imagination, I immediately begin decorating, filling the cave with Persian rugs, fringed lamps, throws and other soft furnishings, then lounge on a velvet chaise lounge surrounded by candles.
By the time Diaz calls us back to the room, I’ve completely lost feeling in my body. The Sekamu and Reiki energy healing session continues, with Diaz applying blue lotus oil to our temples and collarbones and then placing her hands on or near our clothed bodies to balance the “energy field” in and around our uteruses. As she places her hands on my shoulders, I feel the tension that’s built up in my body release and imagine it flowing into the earth.
Can a womb healing ritual help?
It is not surprising that the scientific evidence on the extent to which such interventions play a role in healing uterus-related issues and trauma is limited and inconclusive, although some small studies have suggested benefits of alternative therapies such as Reiki for reducing stress, pain, and anxiety.
The combination of Diaz’s gentle touch, the fragrant oils, and the sisterhood that the sharing circle brought, left me feeling lighter and more supported. I expected to feel a wave of sadness, given my experience as a new mom in lockdown, but instead, I felt a sense of comfort, like being wrapped up in a blanket and given a hot drink. I’d processed enough of my discomfort in therapy and now what I really needed was something calming.
But there were moments during the workshop when it was hard to shake my skepticism. It was hard not to flinch when Diaz talked about how her personal yoni (Sanskrit for vagina, vulva, or uterus) steam baths can help heal trauma, and not just when she mentioned the treatment made famous by Gwyneth. (Note: vaginal steam baths have no scientific basis and are a natural vaginal cleanser.)
Through my psychotherapy training, I am keenly aware of how complex, difficult, lengthy, and painful dealing with trauma can be, and how sensitively it must be approached to avoid re-experiencing the trauma. While Diaz’s enthusiastic recommendation of this treatment comes from her heart (she tells us she suffered from severe period pain for years before starting this therapy), I worry that it could do unintended harm if it comes at the expense of traumatized people seeking medical help.
Of course, it’s not surprising that women would seek support at such a venue: their pain has been routinely ignored for decades. This was a common theme among the women who attended the ceremony, who often spoke of feeling belittled and not listened to by medical professionals (and in some cases their partners or parents) when it came to their reproductive health.
However, I feel strongly that interventions like Uterine Healing should be treated as a supplement to medical care, not a substitute for it, even for those who have had bad experiences within the medical environment. Organisations such as the Birth Trauma Society, Panda (which provides advice and support for pre and post natal depression) and Fertility Network UK (which helps people struggling to get pregnant) can also offer support when it comes to uterine (and mental) issues.
That being said, I was struck by how many of the events of the night felt like an amelioration of one of the main themes that emerged from the sharing circle: a strong sense of shame. Whether it was about difficult fertility, abortion, or being teased for menstruating as a growing young woman, shame was a common thread in every story I heard during the ceremony.
We Know the study Escaping shame requires facing it, not avoiding it (one study found that higher levels of shame immediately after a shame-focused group therapy was associated with better outcomes four months later), and maybe that’s why I felt so good sharing my story with this group of women.
Diaz concluded the session by asking everyone to pick a rose from the center of the mandala and share the intention they want to bring into their lives related to the uterus. Intentions related to the uterus include self-forgiveness, compassion, and, for some women, babies. Something about the conversation about shame resonated with me. I said I wanted to let go of some of the shame, or at least lean into it instead of away from it. As each woman read her intention aloud, the rest of the group applauded. And when it was my turn, I felt like any feelings of shame were far away. It felt good.
In a world where many of us tuck tampons into our sleeves to avoid embarrassing our colleagues when we go to the office bathroom, or feel unable to reveal why we need time off for an abortion or miscarriage, it seems like a good thing to create a space to celebrate a topic that is often shrouded in secrecy and shame.
